how to never grow up 

in the basement there's a piano made 
of children. each of them recalling 
something bright & loud. they live
in the pedals with their thin feet
& their teeth make up the ivory keys 
that were once on the faces of elephants.
i go down the wooden steps alone
to talk to the piano, to ask the piano 
if it might know what to do with
a human like me. i'm always doing this
asking for advice from inanimate objects.
they talk back more than you might think.
i once wrote love letters to
the lamps in our living room, 
pressing the paper to hot light bulbs 
till one caught fire. how did the piano 
end up here? this has been
a procession of childhood after childhood
wandering down the basement stairs.
we all know that's how you disappear,
you explore a dark basement 
or climb up into an attic.
i wanted to be swallowed up. i wanted
the void & the catastrophe of a lost 
daughter-son. i wanted to hear 
their voices searching for me.
as for the piano, it plays itself.
as for the children inside they 
don't know any music so they just
hit the keys. they just meander
through the body of the instrument
& marvel at each other's bones.
i show them my bones & they plead 
with me to join the piano. i consider 
the mallets inside & the possibility
of being struck over & over. i imagine 
being stretched out on the neck 
of a guitar. fingers plucking me
& making me quiver. i want to quiver
down here in the light 
of a single flickering bulb.
when it goes out we will still
have the instrument of ourselves.
i want to be terrified. i want to run
up the stairs & jiggle the locked door,
crying to be let out but i don't want to
i want to stay & the piano creeps closer 
all slow & measured with the same 
dexterity of a wild cat. all the children 
are mixed together so they can't find
a voice to speak with. the noise of 
banging pots & pans comes from
their mouths. some let out the sound
of sirens & i wonder how anyone 
above me could sleep through all this.
i have been listening to the basement for 
weeks. i have been counting the children
going down there. i counted on my fingers first
& then on my toes & tongue. so many.
were our parents ever pianos 
like this or are we changing
as animals? i ask the piano what i should do
with my hands & the piano asks 
to be touched one more time
before i become part of the body.
i play a not-song i wrote myself
on the plastic keyboard 
i used to play in my bed room.
this is a piano you see. this is different.
the notes were all off. the children
laughed at me. i told them i would 
walk inside like i was supposed so 
i closed my eyes. the flooding sound
of snapping wood. the vibrating
of strings.